


Close Enough

by HCN



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: 007 Fest, 007 Fest Anonymous Prompt Exchange, M/M, we survived sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-28 06:03:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11411760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HCN/pseuds/HCN
Summary: Leiter likes Bond, but that doesn't mean he understands him. Nearly dying together doesn't really change that.





	Close Enough

**Author's Note:**

> Written for prompt 62 on the 007 Fest Anonymous Prompt Exchange:
> 
> _Anything with Felix and James having sex after a mission--'we survived' sex or 'we beat the bad guys' sex or 'you're so hot when you're saving my life' sex or 'we've got a spare few hours before our flights depart, want to make good use of them?' sex or pretty much any sexy Felix/James awesomeness._

Despite his injuries, Leiter took care to methodically check that the safehouse was securely locked up before joining Bond in the single bedroom, where he sat rigidly in the chair pushed against the far wall. It hadn’t taken Bond long to pour himself a drink, meaning it was only a matter of minutes.

“You know that whiskey isn’t for you, right, Bond?” Leiter asked.

Bond glanced up at him. He’d made himself comfortable in one of the extra seats. “Well, I don’t see you stopping me.”

Leiter thought about saying something. He really did. His objections were there, all at the tip of his tongue, but Leiter found he had no desire to voice them. He dropped onto the bed, aware of Bond watching him as he did. From the table next to Bond, he reached out and poured himself a second glass.

“I wouldn’t mind having some of that myself, if you don’t mind.”

“The pleasure’s mine,” Bond said, and poured a glass for Leiter. He tactfully didn’t mention how Leiter’s hands shook. In return, Leiter didn’t say anything about how easily Bond downed his own whiskey, or how quickly he went for another. They sat in silence, drinking. All that was interrupted abruptly, with a harsh laugh from Bond.

“What’s so funny?” Leiter asked. “I think I missed the joke.”

“It’s nothing,” Bond insisted. “Just – look at us. Sitting here, drinking, after a hard day’s work – as if it were a normal day.”

“I don’t know about you do things,” Leiter said, “but this isn’t how I end most normal days.”

“Well, that explains some things,” Bond said. “Why you can’t hold your drink, to start.”

“I’m not in practice,” Leiter agreed. “Not compared to you, anyway.”

Bond shook his head. “So are you in the practice of almost dying?”

Leiter tilted his head, took a drink.

“How are you holding up, then?” he asked.

“Well enough, well enough,” Bond said, abruptly more sombre. For how much blood loss Bond suffered that day, and for how quickly he’d necked back his drink, he sounded shockingly lucid. It was unsettling. He still had dried blood in his hair, and on his face.

Leiter could only guess at how he himself looked.

“We need to let someone know we’re still alive,” Leiter said, when he finished his drink and put it back down on the table.

“Please, Felix,” Bond said. He reached a hand out. They sat too far away from each other for him to reach, and he looked at Leiter with the most tired look to him that Leiter had ever seen. “There’s no rush. Do you think we’re in any state to report back to anyone right now?”

“What do you propose we do instead, brother?”

“Get a grip?”

“I haven’t lost mine.”

“It’s a good enough reason to wait for tomorrow,” Bond said. “I’m always being told that I could stand to not… to not plough ahead when I’m injured.”

Leiter kept his voice steady. “I’d rather get this over with as soon as I can.”

“For what?” Bond asked. “To wait until our people can come get us out of here? It won’t be for days. We may as well make ourselves comfortable.”

“You’re going to wait around for days, Bond?” Leiter asked.

“Why not?” Bond asked. “It’s not like the company is bad.”

*

The injuries Felix Leiter walked away with included a concussion; several deep lacerations on his arms, from defensive wounds; three broken fingers on his left hand; and what he worried was a broken wrist. Pain killers took the edge off; alcohol took care of the rest. With Bond’s help, he had been able to bandage up his wrist. It wasn’t perfect, but it would work until he could do better.

“Let me see yours,” Leiter said.

“I’m fine,” Bond told him. “You should look after yourself.”

“I know you were shot,” Leiter said. “And you lost a lot of blood. There’s no point hiding it. I was there, do you remember?”

“Yes,” Bond said. “I remember. And you walked away a bit worse for wear, didn’t you?”

“I could still carry you back.”

“Part of the way.”

They looked at each other, as though this were a stand-off. The question was, who would give in first? What was at stake? Bond’s dignity, Leiter supposed – the man didn’t seem the sort to let someone help him, no matter how much he might need it.

In this situation, at least, Leiter was at a slight advantage. To begin with, although he was hurt, he wasn’t suffering the effects of blood loss. He also didn’t have a busted ankle, so when it came to standing in the small, cramped bathroom that the safehouse had to offer, Leiter wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as Bond.

On the other hand, Bond was stubborn. What did he gain by giving in?

“Just let me take a look,” Leiter said. “I won’t try to take care of you. It’ll just make things easier when your people ask what happened to you.”

“I’m not _dying_ ,” Bond said, with a roll of his eyes. He leaned against the wall, and grimaced. Leiter could see where the sleeve of his shirt was stained red. It looked like it was spreading.

“Fine,” Leiter said. “I’m sure you know what’s best. But we’ll be here for a few days. You said yourself – it won’t be quick, getting out of here. There’s no point making yourself more uncomfortable in the meantime.”

He made the executive decision to get back to the bedroom and to leave Bond alone. Just because he was in a better position than Bond was didn’t mean he was in a _good_ position. He’d be better off lying down himself.

Leiter couldn’t believe he’d even thought about trying to get word back to his people. As he lay down on the bed, all he could think about was how tired he was, and how he knew that whatever sleep he got wouldn’t be coming easily. Given the shape he was in, he knew that he wouldn’t be waking up feeling any less exhausted.

*

On instinct, when he heard someone creeping into his room Leiter reached for the gun he kept under his pillow. Even injured, he moved silently. Whoever it was, they could expect a bullet inside of them if they took another step, or if they tried something.

“Leiter?”

The voice – the accent – gave him pause. He recognised it. Slowly, the memories from the day before – from earlier that night, Christ, what time was it? – came back to him. He reached out and turned the light on. Sure enough, it was Bond, who held his own gun trained on Leiter. His hand was shaking terribly, and he looked pale.

That would be the blood loss.

Without his shirt on, Leiter could see that he was right about Bond’s injuries. Bond’s upper left arm was bandaged, although the job looked sloppy. Already red was beginning to stain through the red. There were other wounds – mostly grazes, alongside plenty of bruises that graced his whole body. At least one of his ribs was broken. Overall, it wasn’t as bad as it could be. It just looked like something that would end up hurting like a bitch, especially if Bond didn’t even accept Leiter’s offer for medical treatment.

“You crazy son of a bitch,” Leiter said as he put his gun away again. Bond did the same.

“What can I say?” Bond said. “I didn’t expect anyone to be in the bed.”

“Where did you think I’d be?” Leiter asked. “In case it slipped your mind, the safehouse isn’t that big. We don’t really have room to be choosy.”

“No,” Bond agreed. “It’s not.”

He looked like he needed the rest, but Leiter wasn’t going to say that. It was part of an unspoken agreement not to bring up the obvious, especially not when the obvious was an injury. _You look dead on your feet, Bond. You look like you should have died, or like you did._

Bond took Leiter’s offer as a suggestion and sat on the bed, then lay down on it. He closed his eyes. Leiter didn’t have the heart to tell him to move, nor the desire to. With his uninjured hand, he grabbed Bond by the arm and tugged him up to the top of the bed.

*

Nothing about what they did in bed together was planned, but then again it never was. Their encounters like this were always abrupt things, a hurried meeting that was over just as quickly as it started. Or so it felt, even if the clock sometimes said otherwise. Leiter never got the sense that he had ever learned his way around Bond’s body, but every time they touched each other the movements felt more familiar.

Tonight both men were weak and exhausted, pulled back from the edge of sleep by some latent awareness that they couldn’t call themselves safe, even if the danger seemed far away and even with a door between themselves and the world outside. Everything smelled like sweat and blood and the day they’d had, almost dying and being shot at.

Bond found his way to Leiter’s shoulder, dragging him closer in the dark on the bed until their mouths met. It was what passed for intimacy between them. Leiter noticed how he favoured his right arm when he pushed himself up off the bed with what strength he had and pushed a hand up Leiter’s shirt, and although he could move the left and use it to pin Leiter’s forearm to the ground – avoiding his maybe-broken wrist, – he didn’t actually put any of his own weight on it.

They moved quickly; there was no reason for either of them to speak. Leiter grabbed the hem of Bond’s sweatpants and pushed them down past his thighs, before taking Bond’s cock in his one good hand and sliding his firm hand over it. Bond pushed a knee between Leiter’s legs, partially returning the favour, making Leiter shudder. Everything they’d done before seemed like practice for this moment, as usual. Like this was the real deal, and everything else was pretend. It always felt that way, but this was the only time they fucked after nearly dying together. In the moment, Leiter could have believed that that meant it mattered more. After the fact, he couldn’t be so sure.

Bond grunted at the movement, and at Leiter’s rough hand stroking him. The blood loss meant it took longer for Leiter to get his reaction from Bond, but it happened. The whole time he was crouched over Leiter, half on top of him and half to the side, with his face in Leiter’s neck where he breathed against his already too-warm skin. The sounds Bond made were rough and ragged, like whimpers, not unwanted. He hadn’t even made this much noise when Leiter dragged him out of the building, when neither could say for sure that they'd live. If the lights were on, Leiter wondered what he’d seen on Bond’s face, and how bad he’d look. How much effort it took to drag this out of him.

Once he finally fell into a rhythm, it didn’t take too much to finish Bond off in his hand. When it happened, it was with a rough grunt against Leiter’s neck, and then his body practically sagged on top of Leiter. Neither of them had the strength to do much of anything else that night.

*

It was the pain in Leiter’s injured hand, that could potentially be broken, that woke him. Bond was still sprawled atop him. It was amazing that he’d been able to get to sleep at all.

“Hey,” Leiter grunted. “Hey, wake up. Move. You’re killing me here.”

Bond groaned. Leiter gave him a harsh smack with his other hand, then took him by the shoulder and shoved at his friend’s body until Bond finally rolled over, freeing his arm. As far as movements went, that was all they did. They remained together, lying on their backs in the dark room, unmoving. At least, they were unmoving until Bond rolled his head over to look at Leiter.

There was nothing beautiful about Bond, and if Leiter was honest he didn’t even find the man all that attractive. Under normal circumstances there were only a few men Leiter even considered, in this sense. The fact that Bond made the second list but not the first was a mystery Leiter had yet to work out.

He thought it was something about the eyes, and their intensity. He could imagine women going for that look, like a knife carving them apart. It wasn’t that, for Leiter anyway. It was just that in moments like these he spotted something accompanying the intensity that was always there. It was a sort of sincerity, or something like that. With any spy, it was hard to tell. With Bond – especially since _this_ started, whatever _this_ was – it was almost impossible.

Right now, whatever it was stood out to Leiter brighter, drawing Leiter’s attention to itself. God knew what it was distracting him from.

Again, Leiter wondered what kind of hell he must look like. He hadn’t a clue, but congratulated himself on having the self-awareness to at least consider it.

 


End file.
